


Yours is the light by which my spirit's born

by steelneena



Series: CR 2 Oneshots and Short Series [24]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Althaia is Ophelia's cousin, And also a passing reference to Hocus Pocus, Angst, Family, Gen, Kidnapping, Memory Loss, Molly Fix It, Molly is alive, Sorry in advance for all the names., Stories within Stories, Thralldom, but is it really cannibalism if hags aren't people?, but that might just be Matt, hags are known for eating people, hags are their own warning, hero molly, in case it wasn't clear, metatextual inception, self discovery, servitude, soft, some inspiration from Chronicles of Prydain, the hags eat no people in this story., there isn't any cannibalism in this fic, with a semi-sweet ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelneena/pseuds/steelneena
Summary: He'd only ever known one life. That of servitude. Admittedly, it hadn't been that long. Maybe a few weeks? A month? But it was still all he knew. They pulled him from the ground they said. What was a little firewood in exchange for a life? (Was this life?) And then, when he'd finished his chores and slunk away from the hags who were cackling around their cauldron, he heard the scream of a little girl and something within him changed.
Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha, The Mighty Nein & Mollymauk Tealeaf
Series: CR 2 Oneshots and Short Series [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1280990
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	Yours is the light by which my spirit's born

**Author's Note:**

> All sylvan in this fic is Welsh! because I decided to try something new! I speak no Welsh. If a word is wrong, please lmk. Translations in endnotes. 
> 
> Page 115 of the Wildemount guide was my inspiration for this story. Thanks Matt! Also brought to you by "Three more Months" Thanks, Taliesin for that cryptic turn of phrase. Now I'm going to be thinking about it for hours every night. 
> 
> Unbeta'd because I fear no god nor man or whatever else. 
> 
> Title from EE Cummings.

The air of Molaesmyr was muggy; the stench of rotting flesh and wood permeated every corner. Often, the small woodland creatures found themselves trapped in the muck of the swamp, and the vapours of their corpses complimented the bog. It was thick in Gelain’s lungs as he swung the axe overhead, arms quivering less than they had a month ago, when he was but newly arrived and weak as a fledgling bird. Power built in his muscles by necessity, and determination too. Sticky with sweat and tongue dry with thirst, he let the axe stay in the log on the stump and wiped his forehead as he looked around. The canopy of trees was thick above the ancient ruins, which broke the spongy ground like knobbed spines from a giant’s skeleton.

“’More firewood, Caethewas, Auntie says’,” he mimed in lilting falsetto, loudly as he dared. “More for Auntie’s kettle, more for Nanny’s cauldron, more for Granny’s basin.” Careful that no owls were spying on him first, Gelain rolled his eyes. “Always more. And then ‘off with you to your cell!’ Bah!”

Twisting his head just enough to crack it, Gelain pushed back the damp curls from his forehead, passing them between the arches of his horns. Just as he’d wrapped his grip around the axe handle once more, there was a fluttering in the unnaturally still leaves, and he glanced up to see an owl watching him unnervingly. With a jostling motion, he pointedly pulled the blade back out of the log and set back to the strenuous pace under the Watcher’s silent gaze.

It was bar none some of the nicest work that he could have been allotted, and though he didn’t doubt that any one of his three Mistresses could have magicked the logs into manageable sizes, he wasn’t about to loose the only work he didn’t much mind accomplishing, simply because one measly owl caught him skiving off.

Eventually, it fluttered away.

With a tickle, sweat dripped down his neck and between his shoulder blades. The loose shirt, which he imagined would billow were the swamp to ever be blessed by a breeze - unlikely – stuck ever more closely to his skin; flushed with exertion and dehydrated as ever, he worked until the pile was chopped before gathering them, along with what little kindling he’d managed to scrounge, into the leather sling. Pulling the straps over his aching shoulders, Gelain began the trudge back to the mouth of the ruin.

Half sunken below the earth, the grey stone with alive with fungi and mosses, and positively crawling with beetles. Despite the submersion, what remained of the ancient stone arch held fast, bar a little crumbling about the edges. The entry had to have been enormous, ages and ages ago, and was beautifully carved in a language that was lost on him. Not that he was sure he could read _any_ language. He hadn’t really had the opportunity. It wasn’t as though there were books in his Mistress’ chambers to peruse, even if he’d been allowed a chance to do so.

Beneath the ruins lay a labyrinth. On his first days allowed out, Gelain had marked up each twist with a bit of phosphorescent substance that grew in little clusters along the lower ceilings in the deeps, so as not to lose his way when going too and from the cavern. By now, he mostly had it memorized, but every once in a while, Gelain replenished the markings.

Just in case.

Getting lost wasn’t an option. Getting lost was _almost_ worse than dying.

Gelain shuddered, remembering the wrong turn he’d taken, the way the creature had slavered over him, how he’d pushed himself deep into the mucky ground to hide, laying like a dead thing, hoping he would be delivered from becoming something’s dinner.

Not that his Mistress’ were a much better option. They’d as soon eat him as anything else, were he to step a toe out of line he was sure. But luckily, he was useful to them, and so thralldom was by far better than death.

Eyes adjusting easily to the dark, Gelain hummed a little to himself in the gloom. The only other sound was the echoing drips of stale water from the ceiling and the squelch of his boots when he stepped off the tapered walkway and into the sludge.

All in all, miserable.

As deep as the cavern was, the air was as stale as the water, but grew foul and smoky in the tunnels nearest the cavern. The misty green haze was the only indicator that he’d arrived. From within the cavern, he could hear them talking to one another.

Auntie Rottongue, her words as raspy as the smoke on his throat, despite the high pitch. Nanny Filthtouch, with her breathy intonations and strange inflection. And Granny Pustreat, whose voice was a low as a toad’s and just as deep, Gelain’s pardon to the toad for the comparison.

“Ahhhh, the _Gelain_ , returns, my dears.” Nanny Filthtouch, by his ears alone. Swallowing the nerves, Gelain took the final steps into the vast cavernous space, removing his burden and settling the firewood in its looked-for places.

“ _Caethwas_ ,” Granny addressed him, dismissively. They had many names for him; though he didn’t know what they meant, he didn’t figure any of them were particularly wonderful. Gelain had simply sounded the most like a decent name, and so he'd chosen it of the many options by which to refer to himself. “Bring me here a bundle for my basin.”

Nodding quickly, he set to the task, trying not to look at any of them directly.

When he’d first woken in the darkness, the thick disgusting air heavy in his lungs and the damp chill of the underground permeating his skin, he’d not been alone. They were there with him, all three bent over him like strange predatory birds in perch, eyeing unfamiliar prey. Their forms then were not as hideous as he knew them to be now. It took…well, mayhap weeks, he wasn’t entirely sure… to break through the illusion of their guises. They had shimmered, occasionally, when a flicker of firelight caught them at a strange angle. At first he’d thought it nothing more than a trick of the light.

Auntie had been slim and near-fair in an alien sort of way, her features fine boned and elongated unnaturally, but with a certain impossible and slender grace. Nanny was pleasantly plump, with the roundness of motherhood in her cheeks and a softness in her hands that came in sharp contrast to the roughness of her touch. And Granny had still been old, but not unpleasant to behold, her wrinkles skin and sagging cheeks evoking a kindness that her sharp-toothed smile offset.

They’d petted at him then, and cooed, calling him a pretty thing, a sad thing, and he’d warred within himself, torn by the unease that ate like a powerful acid in his stomach and the evidence of his eyes, and the sickly kindness with which it seemed they were treating him.

If he’d learned but one thing since waking, it was that his eyes were the least trustworthy of all his sense. Soon enough, he’d seen them for what they truly were. Long, strange limbs with more joints that ought have been present, haggard faces, despite the fae quality that inherently lent their ruined features a certain grace, framed by long grey spider’s web hair. Worst of all, the jagged sharp teeth and the long obsidian claws at the ends of their fingers. Their skin was a sort of beryl colour, though faded as though from lack of sunlight, and their eyes were voids, endless and unnerving.

As he knelt to set the fire, he felt Auntie’s claws in his hair, scratching at the base of his horns. “Ah, _Anwes,_ sweet, have you been good today? Working so hard for your Auntie, yesss?” Her rasping croak caressed his ears; the tips twitched.

“All your firewood is here, Auntie, as you asked.”

A sharp pinch on his arm. “Getting sinewy. Far cry from the sack of bones we ripped from the ground, aren’t you, hmm?” Gelain said nothing. Early on, he’d learned that most of their questions were meant to be rhetorical. But she must have noticed the tremble in his chin, because she laughed at him, pressed a taloned finger against his cheek, the point digging in with the slightest pressure. “Remember _Gelain_ , you owe your pitiful existence to Auntie. And Auntie asks for firewood. Such a little thing, yesss?” Not daring to even curse under his breath, Gelain remained stock still. The owl had seen his break after all. “But arms without muscle were weak and we had pity on you, sweet, when you first came to live here with us. Now you are not so close to a dead thing. Now there is no excuse.”

“Yes Auntie. I’m sorry.”

Another cackling laugh, like a crow. “No, you’re not. But if you’re not careful, you will be.”

Of that, he didn’t doubt her, not at all.

The other two joined her in laughing as she turned him roughly away with the incredibly deceptive strength in that bony joint. Catching himself on his hands, pebbles cut into his palms. Auntie must have been in a good mood, because she moved off, speaking mockingly with her sisters in the language of their names for him as he went about his chores.

Why they wanted him to build the fires and tend the wood always, Gelain wasn’t sure. Really, they made him do little else, and fed him and sheltered him for the trouble. And mostly, really, they ignored him. It was almost as if he were invisible, unless they wanted someone to amuse them. But there were rats and frogs and things for that most of the time.

There were other people too, perhaps not quite like him. Not thralls, more minions. Harder folk than he. Folk of all sorts, who wore armor and bore arms. Folk who went out of the marsh and brought back…something. Folk who worked for the Hags, who were given things that clinked and jingled in compensation.

Folk not like him.

Just as he finished lighting the flame beneath the cauldron, there was a sharp comment in that strange tongue and a whoosh of air. Gelain barely ducked fast enough to avoid the clattering of a tin plate, though the hunk of bread caught him in the shoulder and the laughing continued.

Dismissal.

Finally.

Grabbing it up, Gelain slunk away to his cell, tail curled about his legs. They called it a cell, and he supposed that if they called it such, that that was what it must be, but there were no bars, and some part of him was sure that there were meant to be bars on a cell. Instead, it was simply an alcove down one of the many attached hallways of the underground labyrinth. Once, it may have been a small anteroom, but had since half sunken into the ground. He sat on the stone slab and nibbled at the bread, drinking what remained of the murky water in an old goblet that sat on a rocky shelf that protruded about head height from him when he sat. There was jerky there, of an undefinable sort, but he’d save it for later.

The echoes of laughter overtook the arrhythmic pattern of water pattering onto the rocks. The green mist was overtaken with an orange glow, giving what little light eked through a thoroughly sickly colouration, but Gelain was used to it.

Setting aside the bread to finish later, he dropped a bit of water on the slab, and with the corner of his sleeve, worked at the grime until the surface gave the slightest reflection. Gelain laid back and held up the plate before his face.

Often, he looked at his hands and arms, and as much of his chest and shoulders as he could see by himself, as though the pictures there might hold some answer. Had they always been there? It seemed likely enough – the Mistress’ didn’t like pretty people, he’d realized soon enough. Or rather, they liked them too well for the wrong reasons. So they wouldn’t have put the tattoos there, unless they were some sort of magical bindings, but that didn’t seem right. They never seemed too worried about him running off. Where else was there to go?

Who had he been, that he’d placed such images along the canvas of his skin? What clues did they offer? What mysteries could they defeat?

Similarly, his own face, which he’d only seen before in reflections in the river, was as foreign to him as all else. The sharpness of his jaw, the height of his cheekbones, the point of his nose… And his own eyes – which had frightened him quite irrationally the first time he’d caught their red glare…

But in the end, as always, his contemplation landed upon the scars. And one rather significant one in particular.

More than once, Nanny or Granny or Auntie referred to how they’d come to keep him and though he couldn’t remember it, the implication joined with the scar was enough to provide him with some solid guesses. Shuddering, Gelain rolled over, setting down the plate. It was better not to know. Better not to remember _that_.

Tracing the snake on his hand absently, Gelain shut his eyes and exhausted from the day’s work, drifted to a deep, if uneasy, sleep.

Screams woke him an immeasurable amount of time later.

Startling up from the slab, Gelain crouched down and crept out from his sell, stuffing the bread and jerky into his pocket as he went. There were screams sometimes, but usually he attributed them to the hags themselves.

But this…sounded nothing like one of his Mistresses.

The language was sharp, cutting almost, like broken shards of the waver thin muscovite rock which surrounded the deep pool into which his mistresses sometimes descended for hours on end. It almost hurt just to hear it.

But he knew what was being said.

Quietly as he could, Gelain peered around the corner to where the flame glowed brightly. There was a stone slab table not terribly far from that, cracked a bit on one side, though that never seemed to bother his Mistress’. Usually, it held strange scrolls, bits of raw meat and bundles of herbs or piles of fishy smelling algae.

Not little girls that looked…

Like him.

Her skin tone was grey to his more lavender, and her horns did not curl, but curved back on her head and her eyes glowed yellow in the firelight as she screamed shrilly.

Granny was patting the little girl’s long silvery hair, crooning at her while she shrieked, and Nanny was coiling a length of rope about her thin, flailing wrists. At the cauldron, Auntie stood, crushing herbs in her palm and incanting over the boiling pot.

_“Noooo nononono I want to go **HOME!”**_

Granny’s almost invisible neck gills fluttered angrily from under loose flaps of her sagging skin. “Shush, sweet and _be quiet!_ ”

“The potion! The potion!” Nanny’s eyes were wide as Auntie dipped a goblet inside.

“And the words, dear, and the wordsss.”

The little girl bared her fanged teeth and hissed as the goblet was brought to her lips, Nanny’s hands moving in strange ways, the same odd language falling from her lips, but the girl ripped her arm free from the binding and slapped it away.

In mimic of the child, Nanny hissed angrily before conferring with the three around her.

Gelain grit his teeth and looked around.

He’d never attempted an escape before – there hadn’t really been a point. The woods was dark and thick and parts of the marsh were nigh unpassable, but then he’d really rather the hags ate him, or whatever it was they intended to do, than a little girl.

But they had magic and he…

Well, he had nothing.

Not even a rusted sabre, or a stray bolt, and certainly not magic.

The little girl was screeching again, hissing in the language that pierced worse than the shrillness of her shriek, writhing and struggling as Nanny cast with words and hands and bonemeal above her and she went still.

Something snapped within him. What, he couldn’t define, but it flared up within him and burst violently, thin and wet and warm, dripping down his neck onto his collarbone and Nanny let out a terrible caterwaul, reeling back from the table, clawing at her eyes.

Scrambling back, Gelain pressed himself against the wall firmly. Though he was desperate to squeeze his eyes shut, to crawl back to his cell, he could do neither, riveted in place, eyes open wide and staring at the wall ahead of him with his Mistresses debated tersely in their own language.

He lifted one shaking hand to his neck, which came away covered in blood, though the light made it look a steely grey rather than the vicious red he knew it to be. Taking a breath, he peered out from behind his cover once more. The three had moved closer to the fire, Granny and Auntie doting on Nanny who was still flailing, but their backs were to him. Still form illuminated where it lay on the table, was the little girl.

Softly as he could, Gelain darted towards the slab, skirting the side farthest from the fire, where he took his own talons to task on the rope, even going so far as to gnaw a bit with his fang. It came lose fast enough and he slipped the girl off the table. Her eyes, stark white, were blazing with tangible fear, her face contorted in permanent half scream, but she was looking at him, pleadingly, alive, breathing, but petrified still.

Despite the fact that she seemed unable to make any noise, Gelain brought a finger to his lips unnecessarily before gathering her into his arms and creeping back towards the daylight tunnel, though at this time of night, there was no light to speak of save the fires he’d lit before. It was more difficult, even for her slight form, to stay quiet while navigating the cavern’s uneven ground, but whatever he’d done to Nanny was still bothersome, and the hags were now pouring over a scroll from one of their many rotting chests as he turned the first corner out and broke into a run. Twice he half tripped over himself, but the marks on the walls guided him true.

Three corridors to the opening archway, he heard the shriek and he pushed himself as far as he was able, rushing towards the grey darkness towards the stump where he chopped wood.

The stump with the axe.

Mind racing – _what are you doing, they’ll kill you both, you’ve no chance to fight them and even less chance out there, they’ll catch you, they’ll catch you -_ he shifted the girl in his arms, freeing a hand to rip the axe from it’s resting place, barely missing a step and darted into the mirk and dank and damp and into the cover of the trees.

 _“I’m going to get you safe, I promise,_ ” he whispered in the language, somehow. He was sure of it, because just as it bit the ears to hear, it bit the tongue to say. The girl, finally, showed a bit of movement, and moments later, gripped him firmly around the neck, legs clasped about his waist in a silent deathhold. There was movement from…behind? And Gelain froze, waiting, but the sound grew farther off and faded.

Nervously, he spied around for the tell tale glow of owl eyes, ear straining for a hoot, but there was nothing. Not even the flap of wings.

Even at night, the humidity was no better, and he knew not what other manner of terrible creatures called the forest home, but there was little choice except to continue on. Bugs zipped past his ears and stung at his face, but he resisted the urge to bat them away. The longer he went, the more his already sore arms ached from holding the girl. The added weight sunk him further in the swampy bile, but her grip didn’t loosen and he knew that a ways further, the ground leveled out, because step for step, the muck didn’t suck him down as deep. Though slow going and still alert, he felt himself relax a hair.

 _“What’s your name?”_ he asked softly.

_“Althaia. What’re your name?”_

Gelain made a face. _“You can call me Gelain, unless you can come up with a better one.”_

_“A better name?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Calix. You are Calix, if you like.”_

He only smiled a very little at her and she smiled bashfully back.

_“Do you know which direction you came here from, Althaia?”_

The girl shook her head. _“Thank you, Calix. For saving me. I was taken days ago. We went North, but I don’t know if this is south or not. Where did you come from? Were you sent for me? You don’t look like you were sent for me.”_

Gelain – _Calix –_ bit the side of his cheek and looked around at the trees aimlessly. The same in all directions, but kept walking. _“I don’t know where I came from. I woke up with them. It’s all I know. For….weeks now. They gave me my name.”_

Althaia’s brow furrowed. _“That’s not nice at all. Did they hurt you?”_

_“No.”_

After that, she was quiet and only when he took a break from trudging did he look down to see that she’d fallen asleep. Swallowing hard, mouth dry and brow damp, he pushed onward into the night. By morning, when grey light slanted through the occasional break in the canopy, the ground was dry, the swamp left in his wake, but his steps were slow and his muscle twitching with effort, legs like jelly beneath him.

A while later, when the very first blissful breeze caught across his forehead, almost making him want to weep, Gel- _Calix_ noticed Althaia shift.

_“We’re far away, now.”_

Bright white eyes held his gaze imperiously. _“You’re tired. We should stop. You’re already skin and bones.”_

A tremor overcame him, but he managed to stay standing all the same until they came to the base of a tree where he set her down before collapsing against it himself.

_“We should climb up, don’t you think?”_

Sparing a glance, he nodded. _“Can you get up by yourself? Or do you need my help?”_

She looked him up and down and snorted. _“Do you need_ my _help?”_

_“No, no, I can manage.”_

True to her word, Althaia managed to clamber up the tree without too much difficulty, but Gelain only slumped back instead of making to stand.

_“Calix? Calix?”_

But he did not hear her, sinking instead into the blackness of oblivion.

_“You’re back!” There are two children before him, their parents in the door, short all, smiling back at them. They are hugging, holding one another, and then more children run up, laughing gaily, crying. Their clothes are filthy, but their faces are joyous as they hold one another amongst the glowing of distant fireworks going off, – blues and greens and golds and coppers – an unknowing celebration that the city holds. And then a tiny, tiny child, covered in inky feathers and a tiny green cloak, who looks up at him with large, shining eyes. And somehow, he knows that she’s happy._

_“Yes, I am a good girl.” The voice…it’s familiar, but it doesn’t match the face he sees. And then, another voice, a voice that sings in his veins._

_“Oh my goodness.” Soft, quiet, tender._

_“This is making me really emotional.” Another voice, harder. Firm, but still feminine, like the first two._

_Another. A man, this time, accent thick. “This could be our chance to find a good home for her.”_

_“Yes!” High pitched, raspy, but kind._

_And the little bird child, still looking up at him, in the same, mimicry voice, says “The Mighty Nein!”_

A sharp crack woke him abruptly from the dream, fading it into little more than dregs of colour and shape. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed. The quality of the light was poor always, a misty grey without the gild of the sun to warm it. Drowsy still, limbs uncooperative, Gelain lolled his head against the tree trunk. Only the hissing in their common language from above him sprung him into urgency. _“Calix! Wake up! Someone is coming!”_

Urging his limbs into order, Gelai – _Calix –_ pulled himself up to standing, he stuck the axe in his belt before reaching for the lower limbs of the tree. With a little difficulty, he hauled himself up even as Althaia climbed higher into the upper canopy. More snapping, and the shuddering of branches.

And talking. Too far off to be intelligible.

Calix pressed himself against the trunk, moving around to the opposite side of the tree from the sounds, holding his breath nervously. Above him Althaia did the same, her tail wrapped around the tree limb for extra support. Calix felt the grime from the bark beneath his nails, uncomfortably pressing against the tender flesh there, but he held tight all the same.

“-wonder if she’s still alive?” The first words came in a genteel accent. Certainly not the hags, nor even the minions who had so often traversed back and forth to the ruins. 

“Don’t say that! That’s terrible Fjord! She’s _definitely_ alive, okay?”

“Absolutely! Besides, the Traveler told me she was!”

The voice struck him, a backhand across the cheek, sharp and harsh. Almost on instinct, he recoiled, nearly losing his perch. 

“Do not get your hopes up, Jester. Just because she was when you asked, does not mean that it remains true.”

“I _know_ but-“

Althaia’s foot slipped. She let out a whimper, so quiet it was barely a whisper of sound, but the talking ceased instantly and a hush overcame the whole area.

Heart pounding in his ears, Calix leaned around the tree just a little. Eight individuals stood, hands ready and hovering around their various weapons, glancing about nervously. They were a vibrant array of people, heights, colours, styles all, but their expressions were grim and serious. A human woman in blue and gold made some hand signals before taking the first tentative steps forward, almost totally silently, and a cat hopped of a redheaded man’s shoulder, darting amongst the underbrush.

“I see some tracks,” the woman under her breath as she came back. “Frumpkin catch anything?”

The redheaded man put a hand on her shoulder, and his eyes suddenly shone with a blue light. Calix leaned in, entranced.

“Something…the t…”

But his tone was too low to hear. Glancing up, Calix saw Althaia looking down at him nervously. There was little he could do to comfort her. While he’d not seen minions of the hag who looked like such before, that didn’t mean that they couldn’t be in their employ. Nodding a little, and dropping one hand to the axe, he made to shift around to the next branch. The toe of his boot tested it’s mettle, but with a cloud crack it snapped and suddenly all eyes were on the tree.

“You! Come out of there where we can see you!” And that voice, too, he recognized. “With your hands up! No funny business!”

Another whimper reached his ears, and he bit his lip hard before screwing his eyes shut tight, trying to harness the same ability that helped him blind Nanny the night before, but something within him stalled. The power would not come.

“Come on out or we’ll sic Yasha on you! And she’s very big!”

“I _am_ very big.”

Though he did not know why, his heart ached. Tail twitching, he pulled back the unsteady leg and shifted out from behind the trunk in their direction, one hand on a branch for security, the other holding up the axe, teeth bared and snarling.

“Come out now bef – oh _shit!_ ”

The large woman – Yasha – stumbled back, and the small woman nearly fell into the human man behind her. He hadn’t thought he looked quite so terrifying as he’d hoped, but their mouths were agape and they stalled in their tracks. At least they were surprised.

_“Climb higher, Althaia! Go!”_

Yasha, her enormous silhouette the most threatening among their number, dropped the massive sword she was holding and fell to her knees. Confused, Gelain tilted his head, eyes flickering between her unnatural behaviour and the rest of the group.

“What’re we all staring at?” The tallest one murmured, confused, but none answered him.

 _“Go away! Stay away or I’ll hurt you!”_ Perhaps the language would bite them as well, to add to whatever threat he’d managed to make himself out to be, waving the axe about in the air.

But Yasha’s ducked head only tilted back and he could see that the warpaint that surrounded her eyes was running over her cheeks with damp tears.

“Molly!”

The word was a keen, a plea, but it’s meaning was lost on him utterly.

“Molly, it’s _me!_ It’s your Yasha!”

A sharp prick in his forehead. Slowly, subconsciously, he lowered the axe.

“It’s _me. Please.”_ Her breath hitched. Her voice so soft, lost in the sobs, he could hardly hear her. “ _Please.”_

Mesmerized, grip slackened, the axe tumbled from his hand and landed with a soft thunk in the underbrush. The world narrowed. Two mismatched eyes, staring into his own.

“Remember. _Remember.”_

Words of protest filtered down from the tree above him, but he was insensible to their meaning, lost in the eyes and the voice of the woman before him.

“Molly-“

_“-mauk! Mollymauk, are you alright?” The kind light in her eyes swims in his vision, the roughness of her palms tender on his cheeks as she holds his face. “Are you okay?”_

_“I’m fine, dear. Just took a tumble is all.”_

_Concern etches her features harsh. “Are you sure? Let me see your head.”_

_“I’m really alright. I promise. And if I weren’t, well, I’d be an absolute baby about it so that you’d cuddle me relentlessly. Satisfied? I’ve just had a bit to drink. And then tripped on my own damn tail. I promise, Yasha.”_

_“Oh. Oh good. I just…worry.”_

_“Apparently. I’m not going to break, Yasha-dear. I promise. I’m made of stronger stuff than that. It’ll take more than my own tail to keep me down and out.”_

_The sun shines radiantly out of her tentative smile. “And anything that’s out to get you will have to go through me first._ I _promise.”_

_“You’re a doll.”_

_“Whatever you say Molly-“_

“-mauk!”

Gelain blinked rapidly, clearing his mind of the fog as best as he could. Something was firm beneath his hands, holding him up rigidly, unwavering, and he realized that it was… _Yasha’s_ shoulders. He pulled away, pinwheeling backward in surprise.

“I know you.”

The agony of desire flashed on the large woman’s features. He knew he all too well from his own.

“Yes. Yes and we know you.”

“You’re not from the hags…”

“No, we’re not,” said the woman in blues, her expression clouded and dark. “We were looking for a little girl.” She jabbed a finger up in the air. “That little girl, unless I missed my guess. Hey kid! You related to Ophelia Mardun? Of course you are.” She went on, her tone somewhere between toneless and frustrated, a dire war between the two vacillating concepts. “Why’d I even bother asking.” Turning her head towards Gelain, she continued. “Please tell me you know who we are, aside from Yasha.”

At first, he felt inclined to shake his head; their faces were unfamiliar overall, save for Yasha’s, buried deep somewhere within his psyche, but the rest…

“Your voices…a little.” Swallowing nervously, he pointed to the short woman. A halfling, maybe, he thought to himself. “You…say something else. Something that you’d say to new people. I think it was your voice, but it wasn’t you speaking with your voice…I…”

A befuddled expression graced the halfling, but she indulged the bizarre request anyways. “Uhhh hi, I’m Veth Brenatt- oh wait, _shit,_ um. Hi, I’m Nott the Brave. I’m a little Goblin Girl?”

“Like that’s going to make _any_ sense to him, Veth,” the half orc replied, rolling his eyes. “I suppose you don’t recognize my voice either, considering. Jester, perhaps you or Caleb ought to-“

But Gelain shook his head. “No. I want her – Veth, Nott, whatever. Introduce your group. Like you would. Normally.”

“That’s a very specific request.”

“Indulge me.”

“Uh, hi, we’re the Mighty Nein?”

Twenty minutes later, Calix was back in the tree with a far more substantial weapon than the axe, though he had that too. Althaia was settled across from him on another branch, one arm wrapped lazily around the trunk, belaying a calmness that the firm wrap of her tail around her legs contradicted. And on the branch above her head, looking so stoically at him it was almost frightening, was the one called Caleb’s cat, Frumpkin. It sat so still and stared so unnervingly, Calix thought it could see through him. Or something.

After…Knot? Beth? Someone…after she said the name of the group, and a tentative trust was established, the infighting began. A few of their number, the tall pale pink fellow mostly abstaining, though his attention didn’t seem lost, bickered about what to do next. The lady with the halo – Wren something? – wanted to go fight the hags immediately, to which Calix objected on the grounds that they’d get themselves killed. He’d offered to lead them, of course, but Yasha refused to let him go back, in no uncertain terms. And with the darkening of the sky around her, no one, not even Nini…Wren… not even she had the courage to dispute it.

“You’re staying right here.” Yasha delivered her ultimatum. “And I’m staying with you.”

Which, of course, brought another round of fighting from Bow and Ford and the red headed one about how they _needed_ her if they were going to fight, and set off a debate as to who ought to stay with ‘Molly’. Of course, he knew that he was _meant_ to be Molly, but things were still hazy.

“I don’t need anyone to stay with me.” He’d pointed up at Althaia then. “But she needs someone and if I’m not allowed to go with you, then I’ll stay with her. And we’ll be just fine. I blinded one of the hags temporarily. And I’ve got this axe. I can take care of myself.”

They’d all gone deathly quiet after that, and not a single one would look him in the eye.

In the end, they’d simply left the cat, for all the good a cat would do them against the beasts of the forests. Alert them, maybe, but one swift kick would surely be enough to do it in. But Calix didn’t debate it. It had been a difficult enough task getting them to agree on that much. He wasn’t about to start the argument up again.

Althaia hadn’t said much to him since they’d climbed back up the tree and watched the Mighty Nein depart, leaving him mostly to his own thoughts, which were…extensive. And circling. And futile. Selfishly, he’d wished they hadn’t gone – they were sure to all be killed, of course. It was a miracle that he’d managed to get away at all – because if they didn’t come back…all the answers to his new questions might die with them.

 _No_ , a firm voice, a self-confident voice, inside his head persisted. _You’re allowed to be selfish with them. You’re allowed._

Perhaps the voice was Molly.

He hoped he’d have a chance to find out, because Molly was loved. Molly meant good things. Nice things. Thinks like friends. Like companionship.

Like family. 

Yasha fretted the entire walk. Mostly, the group had confined itself to only the basic necessity by way of verbal communication. Molly’s path through the swamp was nigh impossible to see the farther in they went – somehow, be it that he managed to step lightly, or just that the swamp closed back in around him, she wasn’t sure.

Before they’d left, he’d given them a quick layout by drawing in the sand, and told them of the glowing markers on the walls to mark the turns, and the owls to be wary of…it all left her achingly desperate never to be away from his side again. How long had he been there? And why? He hadn’t said and no one had asked.

Later. That was for later.

She’d begun thinking, immediately, when he’d mentioned that they were hags, about what she would bargain for. The other one…she’d been about bargaining. It was worth a shot at least, to get him back in full, to keep his memories where they belonged. Once, she’d have given away the book and flowers. Once, she’d have given her only chance at Zuala for…once, she’d have given everything.

And that was of course the problem. Now, she had him. Now they were together. But what could she offer that wouldn’t keep them apart? Would they, too, want destructive and painful things from her or the world in exchange? Or would they be satisfied with things of beauty or power?

Down to the very last shred of clothes on her back, down to the very wings from her shoulders, she’d give _anything_.

Reani, oblivious to her companions thoughts, led the charge, and Yasha worried at her lower lip with her incisor as she contemplated how to handle that particular hurdle. Getting Molly back was more important that trying to kill a hag, much less three –they hadn’t stood a chance against Isharnai, what chance would they have now?

Furtively, she glance around at the others, noticing a look on consternation on Beau’s face more heavily than any of the others.

“Stop.” Yasha herself halted as she spoke the word. “We need to talk now. About what the plan is.”

“The plan is to go kill bad things that are kidnapping kids!” Even in a hushed whisper, Reani was determined. “Your friend gave us the right path and warned us about traps and creatures and stuff. What else can we plan until we’re there?”

Yasha looked from Jester to Beau to Fjord, and then to Caleb and Veth and Caduceus. “There are three of them. And Isharnai wasn’t so long ago. We couldn’t have taken her then. I…what if they _let_ Molly get away? Isharnai…she bargained. What if we bargain? Like last time. Maybe they’ll be more interested in that than killing us.”

“Yeah, but there’s still the kids,” Veth pointed out. “And if we bargain first and kill second, what’s to say that the bargain won’t fall through, depending on what it is, once they’re dead, if we even make it that far? They’re not going to stop kidnapping kids unless we offer them something really terrible…” She looked down at her feet. “And I’m not willing to start the war up again, not for this. Not anymore.”

“What do you want, Yasha?” Caduceus asked, and she felt for a moment that he was speaking for them all, the way their eyes all rested on her.

“I want Molly back. This is good. This is better than…than I eve hoped. But I want him to be back and to be safe and I never want him to be hurt again and I-“

Caleb’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Yasha, those are big asks, and once that Mollymauk has not had a chance to weigh in on. Or whatever he is calling himself now.” He turned out to the rest of the group. “If we go in there, there is nothing that can stop the kidnapping of the children without causing further or worse harm to others elsewhere. And that is limited to only what we can promise. What we are willing to promise. And even then, there is no guarantee that they are like Isharnai. If we go in there, we will have to kill them. There is not really another option.”

“Molly would want Molly back,” Yasha said, soft but clear. “Molly would want to be himself again. And I saw him there. I saw him when I looked into his eyes. And he saw me and he _knew_ me. He _did,_ I _know_ he did.”

“Caleb’s right, Yash. It’s his choice to make.” Beau crossed her arms. “I…I understand. But its not our decision.”

They were right, of course. But it didn’t stop her from wanting to be selfish with him. After all they’d been through…after everything…surely, she was allowed to be selfish. Just once. If she could have nothing else…at least that. At least him.

Squeezing away the tears in her eyes, Yasha nodded. “I know.”

They spoke no more as they continued on, leaving Yasha lonely with her thoughts.

Night came. The darkness was as all encompassing as before, save the twin pinpricks of Frumpkin’s eyes, watching him still. The cat hadn’t moved at all since he’d been ordered to watch over them. Not even a flicker of his tail. It was utterly unnatural, but instead of feeling strange, it was oddly comforting. Althaia, however, was not so still. Little children, Calix reasoned, were not meant to be still. Little bodies, lots of energy. It seemed to make sense. He too felt antsy, but something in him pushed him to remain stationary, even when the twig bit behind him started digging uncomfortably into his back. Beneath them, many things had roamed during the day, things that, by all rights, should have smelled them and decided they made a good lunch, but by the grace of chance, hadn’t.

He was busy trying to spot stars through the canopy – an impossible task – when the girl spoke.

_“Tell me a story, Calix?”_

_“I don’t really know any stories, Althaia. Sorry. But I could make one up?”_

She only shrugged. _“Anything is better than nothing.”_

For a while, they sat in silence again as Calix attempted to come up with something to say. She deserved better than this, taken from her family, brought to a terrible cave, about to be…well, something…and then running away in the black of night in a swamp with someone she’d never met before, only to be stuck sitting up a tree all day.

But for all he’d been around for a month, he’d spent most of the time chopping wood and avoiding his mistresses.

So, instead, he picked the only new things he was aware of.

_“Once there was a…halfling. Named…Violet. She was short, but stubborn and she wasn’t afraid of anything. She had…uh…magical tattoos in turquoise and aquamarine that summoned water spirits to protect her when she needed help. And she had Mr. Fox, her best friend, who went everywhere with her. He had very…blonde hair, contrary to his name. At any rate, the were walking through the Savalierwood one day when they spotted a…”_

_“Cat.”_

_“Alright, they spotted a cat. It was rather small, and had very different markings, but it was very cute and Violet decided that the cat would make a good pet. So together she and Mr. Fox looked through their pockets to see if they had anything that the cat might like._

_“There were some biscuit crumbles, and half a teacake, and a handful of sweetmeats wrapped in a cheesecloth, but none of those thing enticed the cat, who slipped like smoke between the trees, disappearing with a poof anytime they got close enough to touch it._

_“So Violet and Mr. Fox put their heads together._

_“‘What do you suppose he would like?’ asked Violet to Mr. Fox. ‘Have you any bread?’_

_“’No, but perhaps we should ask.’ So Mr. Fox turned to the cat. ‘Excuse me, Cat, but can you tell us if there is anything you would like?’_

_“The cat blinked lazily and curled out from around a tree. ‘I don’t need food. Which does not mean I would not like it. But other things are more important.’ The cat thought for a moment. ‘Give me something precious. Something that both has value, and yet cannot be tangibly or physically exchanged. Give me that, and I will be happy._

_“Stumped, Violet and Mr. Fox sat down on log and thought about it for a while._

Althaia perked up. _“That’s a hard riddle. Why’s the cat making it difficult?”_

 _“Well,”_ Calix replied. _“If it’s worth it to them, they’ll work hard for it. Won’t they?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“So, what sort of things are worth working hard for?”_

Althaia frowned, sticking out the edges of her tongue, _“A pet.”_

_“Different than that. Something really really worth it.”_

_“Momma.”_

_“I would imagine so.”_ Calix smiled. _“But a cat can’t be their momma.”_

Althaia’s face suddenly broke into a grin. _“Friends! They wanted it to be their friend, but they didn’t tell it that! They just gave it stuff. And Momma says that things don’t buy friends, they just buy power.”_

It took a moment for Calix to recover from that one, but luckily, she didn’t notice the jump of his eyebrows. _“That’s right. Absolutely. So after a while they came up with the same answer, and Violet looked up at the cat. ‘Friendship!’_

_“The cat smiled at her, in a way that only cats can, and the trailing smoke of his tail solidified. ‘I’ve been alone a long time, and no one has offered to be my friend. They want me to chase mice and rats, and to comfort them when they desire it, but I want more than that. I will happily chase mice and rats for you, but because I want to, if you are my friend. And not because I’m told.’_

_“’We will never require it of you. We want only a companion. And when you are cold, we will hold you and warm you,’ said Mr. Fox._

_“’And when you’re hungry, we will feed you. And sad, we will hold you, because you need it too, just like we do,” finished Violet._

_“And from then on Violet and Mr. Fox and the Cat were never lonely again, and they often ate jerky together, which cats like much better than sweetmeats. The end.”_

Althaia’s tail briefly uncurled from around her legs, swaying much more happily than before. _“That was a nice story, Calix. Thank you. You are a good storyteller, even if you don’t think you are. Are…are they your friends?”_

_“What?”_

_“Those people…are they your friends? Do they know you? They called you ‘Molly’. Is that your name?”_

He shrugged. _“I don’t know. Maybe? I hope so.”_

_“I hope so too. I hope they come back.”_

His stomach did a flipflop. There wasn’t a reason, really. He didn’t know them. But still, his heart clenched. He didn’t have it within him to respond.

_“Can I…will you hold me?”_

_“Oh…”_ he blinked. _“Yes. Of course.”_

Carefully, she crawled into his arms. The heat and weight was nice, and the rhythm and cadence of her breathing soothed him. But even once the little girl had fallen asleep, Calix remained awake, unable to close his eyes for the nerves and the unknowns the whole night long.

A snapping twig woke him again the next morning. Althaia was still curled up in his arms, but the slow conversation that found its way to his still muddled hearing was not that of hags or minions, nor the garbled language of the twisted fae that roamed the forest. Perking up a bit, Calix looked over his shoulder to see the group making its way towards him. Breath held, he waited as one by one they all filed through towards the tree.

“You’re alive!” Althaia stirred at his exclamation, blinking awake. “You’re all alive!”

“Ding dong, the witches are fucking dead,” Bow replied drolly. “Gods, that _sucked_. Jester, anyone told you you’re incredible lately? I’m so glad we didn’t have to go through that with Isharnai.” She looked up at them. “You can come down now. We’ve got to get you back to your Aunt, kid.”

“And we got you some things, Mister Molly! Some armour and an even _nicer_ weapon!” Wren? He still couldn’t quite remember, spoke up. “So that you’ll be safe!”

He only managed a strained smile. “Safe sounds perfect. Thank you.”

The walk back to Althaia’s home – Shady Creek Run – was a long one, and fraught with close, and one actual, encounter with some strange, twisted beast, but without too much trouble, they found themselves nearing the place that Caduceus – the tall pink haired one – called home. There had been a lot of furtive glances at him throughout the journey, and whispered conversations which he hadn’t quite managed to overhear. He’d spent most of his time with Althaia, who clung to him, remaining shy with the others. Even Jester, who was also a tiefling.

They were close to Caduceus’ home that night, though not close enough to continue on safely, so they set up camp once more. Only when Althaia was asleep did the firbolg approach him, all the others keeping their distance, but watching him surreptitiously. Save Yasha. She always watched him openly. And unrelentingly. And the cat, of course.

“Hey there. How’re you doing…?”

“Gelain.” The response was automatic, but he immediately corrected himself. “Calix. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter.”

Brow furrowed, Caduceus settled down beside him. “That’s Sylvan, that first word. Do you know what it means?”

He shook his head. “It’s one of many things the hags called me, I just…stuck with it.” Not once had they asked for his story. They seemed all to be waiting for something. What, he wasn’t sure.

“Oh, well, it’s not a great thing to go around being called, I guess, but to each their own.”

Calix sighed. “Didn’t figure it was. Are you going to tell me?”

“If you like. It means ‘corpse’ actually.” It was delivered so matter-of-factly, so unnervingly straight, that Calix almost didn’t blink. “But Jester said that Calix means handsome, just, you know, for a point of reference.”

Calix found himself nodding to the statement.

“What I really wanted to talk to you about is…well actually it’s an offer,” Caduceus went on, irreverent of Calix’s silence. “I didn’t know you before, so I’m not biased. But the other did. But not Reani. We met her later. She’s just making sure that everyone gets back safe before going back to her own home. Like me. Anyway, I didn’t know you before. But the others did. I met them shortly after your died, actually.”

Finally, he blinked. “I died?” His voice was so small he almost didn’t recognize it. It made sense. He’d always known…suspected…but hearing it said…

“Yeah. I did get a chance to visit your grave. At any rate, we discovered in our more recent travels that under certain circumstances, I can restore memories to people who are missing them. And if you’re interested, I’d be willing to give it a shot for you. No guarantees of course. You, uh, haven’t been on an island with a sea creature pretending to be a god recently, have you?”

Utterly perplexed, Calix simply shook his head.

“Right. Didn’t think so. Well, if you want, the offer’s there. It’s just, the rest of you will continue on without me after tomorrow. So I figured I’d let you know now. Jester can do it too, but she knew you and there’s bias there. Wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it.”

He took a moment. “I don’t know how I feel about it.”

“That’s fair. Oh, and I’m supposed to tell you, that this is the…’third you’? And you didn’t have your memories of the first your last time. I don’t know if this spell should work, what it’ll all bring back. Bits and pieces, the whole of one and not the other, both…” he shrugged.

“Oh.” Suddenly, the prospect was terribly daunting. “I see.”

“No one expects anything from you.” Caduceus was peering at him now, large doe eyes soft and compassionate. But Calix looked back at his hands in his lap, and bit his lip. “They might hope, but whatever you decide, they care about you enough to understand. You never have to worry about that. They’re your friends. Your family. If you want them.”

“I don’t know.”

Gently, Caduceus’ hand landed on his own. “That’s okay. It’s a big thing to think about. And if you do decide, down the line, that you want it, but you want me to do it and not Jester, well, you’ll know where to find me. There’s no pressure. You can be whoever you want to be. You don’t have to be Mollymauk. Or Gelain. Or Calix. You can choose for yourself.”

It was nice, being given a choice. It felt good.

Freeing.

He met Caduceus’ eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

“Sleep well.”

“You too.”

The others slept in a dome, but he didn’t like the dome. Though it took some convincing, Althaia had agreed to staying there. But he slept beneath the open sky. And it was visible finally, the canopy less dense in that part of the Savalierwoods. The sky was a beautifully deep velvet and the stars were the far off flickers of torchlight, dancing on the wind. So stunning was the sight, it took his breath away. Even more beautiful, as the clouds part, was the moon. With lustrous silver it shone down on him like a lover’s kiss. So many things were in his head that he didn’t know where they came from, but they felt less like the vestiges of someone else’s identity and more extrapolations of his own.

There had been two memories already. Memories where words were in his mouth, where he ascribed endearments to perfect strangers, where he strode among them with comfortable companionship. Caduceus had said that there was no weight of expectation, but that was wrong. There was. There had to be. They’d loved him, whoever he had been. They loved him desperately. They wanted him back.

There had to be a good reason for that. Any maybe…maybe he was that person whom they loved. Maybe those memories would come back on their own. Maybe he had never been the corpse tugged from the ground by hags, or the handsome hero of a young tiefling. Maybe he’d only ever been their Mollymauk, waiting to resurface when familiar faces came to his rescue. And maybe there would only ever be two memories and nothing more.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Clouds drifted again over the moon’s splendour, dampening it, but never covering it entirely, and he fell asleep to its watchful gaze.

In the morning, he woke covered in dew. The rest were still in the dome, but Caduceus crouched, humming around a little fire.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning to you, too. Tea?”

A tea cup was raised to his hands and he breathed deeply the heady aroma. Sweet, a tinge of decay, but with possibility. Not inevitability.

“You speak Sylvan?”

“Yep.”

“What’s the word for ‘moon’?”

Caduceus cocked his head. “lleuad.”

“That’s me. That’s who I am. And if Molly and I are the same, it’ll happen as it’s meant to. Thank you for the offer, but I can’t accept.”

A smile, real and wide and true. “Of course. It’s nice to meet you, lleuad. I can’t wait to introduce you to all of my friends.”

Surprisingly, Ileuad felt himself beam, as well. “It’s nice to meet me, too.”

Things would turn out alright. He was sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Caethwas - Thrall  
> Gelain - Corpse  
> Anwes - Pet  
> Ileuad - Moon
> 
> And I picked Greek for the name that Althaia gives him, and it does indeed mean Handsome. She's definitely got a little crush.


End file.
